


Restoration

by arealshitwizard (gaiusgallus)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, First Meetings, Flirting, Love at First Sight, M/M, Painting, newt is a disaster, painting restoration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 04:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21247319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaiusgallus/pseuds/arealshitwizard
Summary: Ok I had this idea in my head and it wouldn't go away so here is Aziraphale as a painting restorer and Crowley as a flash stock broker... There's just one chapter sorry for my sins





	Restoration

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this was just stuck in my head... I honestly know I do NOT have the energy to write any more of this so if you want to take this idea and run with it please do so, I do not claim any rights to this idea or AU or whatever, please just use this as a springboard. If you create something lemme know just so I can enjoy it, idc if you credit me or not <3

The Bentley careened through London streets and smoothed to a stop outside a corner shop. ‘A. Z. Fell’s Restorations’ was hand painted in swooping strokes on a large sign above the door. The occupant of the Bentley, one Anthony J. Crowley, got out of the car, lighting a cigarette as he went. He leaned against the bonnet, watching the shopfront with carefully practiced disinterest. He was tall and thin, an all-black exclamation point of a man. Smoke curled lazily from his mouth and up, around his sunglasses, as he stood apart from the people bustling to and fro on the sidewalk.

Crowley finished his cigarette with a long drag and flicked it into the gutter outside the shop. He walked around and opened the boot of the Bentley, pulling out the canvas wrapped in butcher paper and twine. A cheerful bell chimed over the door as he swung it open, propped it briefly on his hip, and entered the shop. The anteroom was a small reception area, old and lumpy looking antique chairs pressed flush against warm cream walls. Some sad looking plants, bereft of sunlight, spotted the room. A gangly man stood behind the counter, papers scattered across his work surface. He had a look of chagrin on his face that seemed all too at home, the look of someone who knows they appear a flustered mess but can’t seem to do anything about it.

“You Mr. Fell?” Crowley drawled. The man- no, on second glance the boy- spluttered and shook his head violently. Well that’s good, Crowley mused. The slight twinge of nerves in his spine settled, relieved that he wasn’t about to deliver his package into the hands of a bumbling incompetent.

“I’m Newt, uh er- Mr. Pulsifer.” The man supplied. He stuck a hand out to shake, which Crowley pointedly ignored. It looked clammy. Crowley didn’t do clammy. Newt retracted his hand and offered a tight grimace in its place.

“Right, then where’s Fell? I have a project for him.” Crowley peered around. Unless Mr. Fell was hiding behind the wilting fiddle-leaf fig sulking in the corner, Crowley assumed the rest of the shop must be beyond the door behind clammy Newt.

“Ah yes, uh well Mr. Fell is in the back, working on another client’s project. Did you have an appointment, Mr.-” Newt shuffled the papers around his desk, seeking some sort of answer. When his impromptu cartomancy yielded no fruit, he looked back up and smiled uneasily at Crowley.

“Crowley. No, I didn’t make an appointment. Do I need one? I’ve not much time today, honestly. Can I just drop this thing off and-”

He cut himself off as the door behind Newt swung open, and a man with crisp white hair bustled through carrying two steaming mugs. “Newt, I had the kettle on and thought I’d bring you a cup, how’re those receipts going?” The man’s eyes alit on Crowley and he smiled grandly. “Oh pardon me, terribly rude, I seemed to have interrupted!”

Crowley’s train of thought careened off the tracks and was in danger of causing quite a large bit of structural damage to his surrounding brain. Something about the man’s smile, so genuine and pleased, caught him off guard. People usually only smiled at him when they were going to kiss his ass or stick a knife in his back. Often they intended to do both. He immediately tamped down his excitement and admonished himself for acting like some moon-eyed school boy.

“Mr. Crowley was looking to drop off something for restoration.” Newt said quickly, grabbing a hold of the cup being offered. “Today, if possible.”

“Well I don’t see why not!” The man, who Crowley assumed had to be Mr. Fell, set his cup down on the desk and fixed Crowley even more firmly in his gaze. “Would you have time for a consultation today, Mr. Crowley? I always insist on one before setting about to any real work. It’s of the utmost imperative that the vision of the client is properly fixed before restoration takes place!”

Newt started with, “I believe he’s busy-” before stopping in his tracks as Crowley flapped his free hand dismissively.

“Course, I’ve got all the time in the world.” Crowley said. He grinned what he hoped was a winsome smile. Smiles were a two way street that Crowley seldom found himself needing to travel, and he thought he could hear the muscles in his face creaking in protest. There was something in this fastidious looking man that dragged it out of him. Underneath his tweed coat, he was wearing a worn velvet waistcoat, a cream colored button up, and a neat tartan bow tie. His clothing all looked warm and well-used. Crowley suddenly felt flat and two dimensional in his designer jeans and jacket, bought a week ago and doomed to be tossed aside carelessly when the next outfit caught his eye.

“Splendid, please accompany me to my office and we’ll see what we have here.” Fell said easily before sipping delicately at his tea. Crowley followed him through the door, breezing by the desk and causing a few receipts to flutter into the air. Newt snatched at them desperately and ended up with a decent splash of tea on his green jumper. Crowley smirked as he heard Newt splutter through the now closed door.  
“Follow me this way.” Fell led him into a starkly lit white room, with little else beyond a table and stool. The table had a magnifying lens attached to a poseable arm, clamped to the table. Fell set his tea down on a countertop lining the wall and made his way to the table. He gestured for Crowley to set down the canvas. “Now, what have you brought me?”

Crowley set the package down on the table with an unceremonious thump. Fell shot him a sharp look at the sound, his mouth a hard line. Crowley bit back a grin. He was often a bit of a bastard to people, and captivating shop keepers seemed to not be an exception. “It’s a painting my mum left me in her will. She passed recently, and when I finally got the thing from her estate, it looked like this.” Crowley peeled off the butcher paper, exposing the painting beneath.

Fell gasped softly and craned in close to Crowley, eyes searching the canvas greedily. Crowley watched him from the corner of his eye, peering through his sunglasses to take in the other man’s reactions. Fell appeared transfixed, and there was something in his eager gaze that made Crowley feel a tad hot under the collar. He’s just close to you, probably hot enough to sweat through all those layers, Crowley admonished himself. It wouldn’t do to feel too warmly towards a tweed-wearing art-obsessive. 

“Oh my, what a sight.” Fell finally sighed, hands knitted together firmly over his midsection. He reminded Crowley of a child being made to keep his hands in his pocket in the sweets aisle. The paint on the canvas was flaked and cracked in places beneath a varnish that had long ago lost its luster to an ochre haze, but even that couldn’t stop its beauty shining through. It depicted a lush and dark garden, small animals hidden under every leaf, between every tree. In the center, a nude woman, skin a rich brown, stood in a swathe of wildflowers. Her body was wrapped in the sinuous dark coils of a large serpent, whose scales were dappled red and black. She appeared to be holding the serpent close to her, pressing it firmly between her breasts, the body of the serpent leading down and almost completely censoring the rich hair at the V of her hips. The serpent was reared back away from her, mouth open, poised and ready to strike. At the woman’s feet lay an apple core.

Fell seemed to wake from his reverie and whirled around, heading back to the counter and retrieving two pairs of latex gloves from a drawer. He handed a pair to Crowley without making eye contact, gaze still consuming the painting on the table. He snapped the gloves on quickly with a sharp noise that definitely did not make the unflappable Crowley flinch in his too expensive boots. “I must say, you’ve certainly bucked my expectations with this,” Fell said breathily. 

“What’d you expect, then?” Crowley teased. 

Fell hummed and shot him an arch look. “Something abstract, the type of piece you might see hanging in an austere lobby of a high rise office building.” He retorted. Crowley played at being offended, fingers pressed to his chest in a ‘who me?’ sort of gesture. Fell fixed him with that beaming smile once more, but his eyes were inevitably drawn back to the canvas. He reached towards it and shot a quick look at Crowley, his eyes entreating. Crowley nodded.

All at once Fell’s hands were alighting gently over the edges of the frame, which was also weathered and cracked, its once-gold burnishing a dismal muddy brown. Fell was mumbling little comments and entreaties beneath his breath, talking more to the painting than himself. Crowley snapped his gloves on and moved in closer. “So, can it be fixed?”

Fell tutted. “Well she’s not broken! It’s in the natural life cycle of a painting, to experience wear and the ravages of age. However, I am certain we can rejuvenate her, give her a second blush of youth.” He spoke of the painting like it was a living thing, like it mattered a great deal. Crowley suddenly realized he was going to accept whatever payment this man requested for his work, haggling be damned. Gone was his usual urge to play hardball. A pushover like Newt was something he’d come all too accustomed to bowling over in his career of investing. While Fell exuded soft comfort, there was something steely in his eyes that immediately caught Crowley’s interest. There was the look of a man who knew exactly what his time was worth, and wouldn’t be caught dead accepting a pound less.

“This work is really quite remarkable, a masterful use of chiaroscuro. It reminds me almost of Marie Raphael!” 

And here we are. Crowley grimaced and looked away while his left foot began a nervous tapping on the floor. “Er- yeah, that’s uh… ‘Cos it is.” His mother had been the one with an eye for beauty and art, and had been especially fond of Raphael’s works. The only thing Crowley knew about them was that they were expensive pieces, and he’d had his fair share of art collectors frothing at the mouth while cornering him at dinners and pleading he part ways with the paintings hung all over the house. Even the affable restorer’s enthusiasm set him on edge.

Fell suddenly pulled his hands away from the frame, eyes bugging and his mouth forming a tight and shocked ‘o’. “This- this is a Raphael? But I’ve never seen this piece before… My, my, there really is no mistaking this style though, oh dear. Are you putting me on?” Fell saw Crowley’s serious expression and his befuddlement increased. “I am absolutely blown away, this is unparalleled, a Raphael in my store and you want me to, oh Heavens I don’t know what to say, are you terribly sure?” Fell was blathering, hands linked in front of him again, fidgeting nervously. 

“Are you capable?” Crowley drawled. His expression had soured during Fell’s clucking, and the man reacted as if he’d been stung.

“Of course! I may not be the most recognized in the restoration field but my clients are always satisfied, and I come very highly recommended. I can give you some business cards, if you care to check around!” Seeing Fell’s shock cooling to righteous indignation put Crowley better at ease. He relaxed a tad, the toe of his boot finding firm purchase once more on the speckled white tile.

“I’ve already checked around. That’s why I came. You’re too modest, Mr. Fell. You seem to be highly lauded, and everyone I came across said you were the best.” Crowley reached a hand out and trailed it along the frame of the painting. He couldn’t help but notice Fell’s eyes follow his fingers’ paths. Interesting development, he thought happily, filing way that away for future examination.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate you trusting me with such a task.” He returned his attention to the painting. “What work were you looking to have done, Mr. Crowley?”

“Just Crowley, please.” He replied. “Honestly, I’ve not got an eye for this type of thing. Mum was the art lover, I was just the numbers guy. Whatever you think needs doing, do.” 

“Ah, well then, Crowley,” Fell said sweetly. He spoke his name as if it was an actual treat, the letters spun from caramel and cream. “You may call me Aziraphale, if you’d like to do away with formalities.”

“Aziraphale… Fell?” Crowley asked, his eyebrow arched over his lenses.

“Yes, rather. A mouthful, to be sure, but a name is a name and I have mine. As for the painting, is there anything you don’t want done then? How much work to restoring the frame? Maybe a new application of gold leaf? Touch ups to the canvas? Should it look like new, or have a few touches of age as a reminder of its past?” The questions flew quickly as Aziraphale inspected the painting, hands alighting on surface level cracks and chips. Crowley’s irritation was being swept away and that maddening warm feeling returned.

He cleared his throat, stepped back from the canvas, and slipped off the gloves. “Seriously, haven’t the foggiest. I trust your eyes far more than mine.” Aziraphale looked up at him again, brow furrowed.

“Well, if you insist, I suppose… But I would like to keep in contact with you throughout the process, maybe send you images? I can show you some work I’ve done before on similar projects, a preview on what you can expect for all the routes we might take.”

“How’s ‘bout,” Crowley said, “I come back this time Thursday and see where you’ve gotten up to, and we can go from there?” Crowley knew it would be easier just to be emailed the photos and wave on the work. There was something in him demanding that he return, that he see this fussy man again. Maybe he could even watch him as he worked. That thought almost brought a flush to his face, the idea of Aziraphale bent over the painting, brush in hand, concentration stilling his expression.

Aziraphale lit up like a sunrise. “Oh, splendid idea! Yes, I can get some basic preparations done by that time, luckily for you I only have the one other client to work on at the moment and their piece is exceedingly simpler than this and almost finished to boot! I can at least have the varnish removed for you. Thursday, you said?"

Crowley nodded, and unable to repress that bastard streak, grinned and said lowly, “It’s a date.”

At this, Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat, and looked down at the painting attempting to clear it. His smile was coy, and Crowley could hardly believe his luck. It appeared he had affected Aziraphale as much as he’d been affected. With that, he turned and walked through the door, not sparing a look back. A date, now isn’t that a lovely thought? Crowley stalked through the reception room and ignored Newt’s weak goodbye as he pressed through to the city street.

Speeding away from the shop, Crowley blasted the radio, trying to chase away thoughts of Aziraphale.


End file.
